My Night Life
by L. M. Lachance
Summary: Black Donnellys: Short clip from the perspective of one of Jimmy Donelly's pitstop girls: what happens when he comes by late one night after taking care of some business. May develop into this girls memoirs of the Donellys.


By twenty four I had faced my demons and settled my score with god; but that didn't mean I'd found any sort of peace. I worked long days, splitting my time between the Fire Cracker and a Laundromat, and I never slept a whole night through. A lot of times I just couldn't. I'd lay awake in my bed, thinking about how life had been and mourning lost time; that or waiting for Jimmy Donnelly. Because on the nights when I did manage to doze off, he'd usually show up around two or three in the morning, knocking on the door and begging me to let him in.

And usually I did. Having been a junkie myself, I knew how desperate some times could be. I understood how badly you could need to be with someone else—anyone else. That's one reason why I opened my door to Jimmy. Another was that I knew the Donnellys were the kind of boys who were frequently in some bad scrapes with some heavy hitters; leaving Jimmy out on the streets might mean leaving him to get whacked.

And for the times when his drug addiction or his involvement in half the bloody, neighborhood conflicts wasn't enough to justify letting him in, there was the old stand-by; I was in love with him and had been since we were kids in high school.

Just two soft knocks on the door that night; that's when I realized he knew I never slept. I asked him about it when I pulled the door open.

"You're tired all the time, Holly, and I see it," He explained, pulling his boots off just inside the door. "And I know how it is, too. Once you been down some roads, there ain't no such thing as sleep no more."

"Jimmy you smell," I told him.

"Don't I know it," He sniffed. "I'm sorry baby. Sorry I'm bringing this smell into your apartment."

He didn't have to tell me what the smell was. I'd grown up in the neighborhood, same as him, and while it wasn't so bad as other places I knew, you didn't get to be my age without knowing the smell of a dead body. Too many poor sons of bitches turned up in dumpsters or half buried in alleys for me not to know.

"Lemme run you a bath, Jimmy." I didn't wait for him to respond. I went straight to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. He followed, and undressed on my soft rug, leaving his smelly layers in a small pile.

There was no external evidence that he'd taken a beating, although I'd seen it before. Once he came over with his face beaten into a swollen pulp, and hateful red welts from lashings spread across his back. I'd spent an hour crouched over him on the bed, trying to clean that mess up.

No, this time there wasn't anything like that. But I could tell something had worked over his nerves. Standing naked under the harsh florescent lights of my clean, white bathroom, Jimmy Donelly was a beaten man. He looked gray. He looked tired. He was shaking.

"Jim—,"

"Don't even, ask Holly, cause you know I can't tell you, even if I wanted to."

"All right," I sighed, and kept my eyes on the rising water level in the tub. When it was almost full I stopped the tap, and waited for him to get in.

"What, you gonna stand here and watch?" He scowled.

"Just sit down, Jimmy,"

He splashed into the bath, and sat down awkwardly, knees drawn in to his chest. I grabbed a wash cloth from under the sink and a bar of soap, and went to work, rubbing it gently over his neck and back. He shivered harder.

"Shh, baby, don't worry anymore." I whispered. "You're here now and it's fine. I'm gonna take good care of you. Don't worry about nothing."

I took my time. Forty-five minutes passed while I bathed Jimmy Donelly, and washed his hair with the green apple shampoo I knew he liked. There were no physical boundaries between us. I'd certainly seen him naked before, and the two of us had never had any qualms about where hands went. By the time I finished rinsing the suds from his broken body his shoulders had relaxed and color had returned to him.

"Are you hungry, Jimmy?"

"Naw," He dried off, and wrapped the towel around his waist.

"You want to watch some TV or something."

"Naw," He shook his head. "Do you wanna just . . . could we just lie down, baby?"

"Sure, if you want to,"

Lying down rarely meant just lying down with Jimmy, and sure enough, soon as we were both on the bed he was bent over me, kissing my neck. I didn't object. Jimmy was the only man I was with anymore. He was the only man I ever wanted to be with. And even as I lamented over his shortcomings, his troubles, his girls on the side, I loved him with all my heart and gave myself over to him, wholly.

He was always slow about making love. I think it started when he was young, out of fear that his leg was going to make him awkward. But it became a ritual with him. There was always foreplay. He always took the top. Every move he made was deliberate. Sex was the only area in Jimmy's life where he had patience; where he took his time. It was frustrating. It was painfully controlled. But the end result was always better than with anyone else, and if we hurried, I'd miss that moment when his eyes lit up and muscles clenched, and he mouthed "I love you" while he came inside my body.

If we hurried, it wouldn't feel so beautiful afterwards when we lay wrapped in one another, exhausted and satisfied.

"Holly," He whimpered into my neck that night. "You're the most amazing woman I know. You're an angel. A saint."

"Saints don't do what we just did, Jimmy," I joked. "I'm just an average girl after all."

"An average girl wouldn't spend her nights taking care of me like you do," He sighed. "An average girl wouldn't wait up for me, then get me cleaned up and fed and—Holly, no other girl would have seen how I felt when I came through your door tonight. Only you,"

I kissed his elbow. "What do you mean?"

He laughed sadly. "I was scared. Scared out of my damn mind. You know most people think I don't get scared. They look at guys like me, and Tommy, and Dokie—guys like Huey was—and they think we ain't afraid of nothing. But they're wrong, Holly. Sometimes I'm scared shitless."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, tonight," He nodded. "Funny thing is, nothing even happened. Just moving that body—seeing that piece of shit's eyes, still shining in the dark even though he's been dead three days . . . that's all it took. I couldn't hardly breathe. Times like tonight, all I want is for someone to rub my back and tell me it's okay. A normal woman wouldn't understand that. She'd think I was some kind of pussy. You . . . jesus, Holly, you're special."

"Thank you," I whispered.

We fell asleep after that, and as I drifted off I did my best to memorize everything about the way I felt in Jimmy Donelly's arms. I ignored the smell he'd brought home with him, though it was burned in my nostrils. I overlooked the fresh track marks in the crook of his arm. All the stupid things he'd done and the hurt he'd caused me meant nothing right now. I just needed to absorb this feeling, and keep it for the next time my faith in him started to falter.

Jimmy never said it aloud. That he loved me, I mean. But I knew that's what that feeling meant, the feeling I got when I was in his arms. It meant that he loved me completely, best of all, no matter what.


End file.
